Andrea's Antics: The bike trip to hell and back

This is a true story. You are going to doubt that it is, but you must realize that I am married to a very, uh, odd man. When our son, Zach, was in elementary school, his teachers would tell us at parent-teacher conferences that Zach told the most fascinating stories. I didn't have the heart to tell them that all those stories about his father were true.

That ram did headbutt my husband, Coop, when he docked our boat on a "deserted" island off the Maine coast and let our dog, Zach and his friends run loose. You see, the island was actually being used by a local farmer to graze his sheep. So the ram, irritated by our golden retriever chasing his ewe girlfriends, decided to take it out on Coop's butt as he ran down to the boat (my husband, not the ram). The nearly blind farmer did try to shoot my husband with a rifle as he figured my husband was a poacher, and besides, his ram was never wrong about a person. I have a million of these stories after 40 years with Coop.

So, with some serious trepidation, I listened while Coop and his equally insane brother, Mark, planned a bicycle trip with a gang of equally old and senile gargoyles, I mean friends, from Fort Lauderdale to Key West. Oh sure, a lot of avid cyclists travel great distances, but you see, Coop hasn't been on a bike in 20 years and even then he rode the bike in a parade with our son.

Since I have learned that talking to the wall (aka Coop) changes nothing, I just smiled when he excitedly discussed his plans. So weeks passed, and it was getting close to the date of the infamous trip when Coop decided to "practice." Hours later, he came home with blood, scrapes and bruises all over his shoulders and legs — skin hanging off limbs like price tags. Now I feel better about the trip.

On day one of their infamous journey, the lunatics on this trip from hell were biking through Fort Lauderdale — not Everglades City, mind you, but a big urban city. One of the gang, Jackson, decided that it was better to bike against the heavy traffic — not with it which is normal (an unknown word to this group). So, when a man in a car pulled out of a gas station, looking left because he was turning right, he didn't know Jackson was racing toward him. The nice man turned right and BANG, down goes Jackson, who was bruised and scraped (sound familiar?) but not hurt.

On day two, my husband thought it was even smarter not to ride on the road at all! Yeah, he'll bike 40 mph on the crowded sidewalk! Doesn't that sound safe? So, he's zipping down the road at the same time an exhausted, large Publix employee stepped off the bus, and again, BANG. My husband, his bike and the tired lady, who was just trying to get home, became one. The police, ambulance and gawkers all provided assistance. Both the woman, who will probably never take the bus again, and Coop were badly bruised and scraped (a trend, eh?) but no one needed to go to the hospital and so far, we haven't been sued by the woman.

On day three, he called from under a bridge during a thunderstorm. Here was the conversation. Coop: "I wish we could find Denny." Me: "I thought Denny was being paid by Mark to drive a van behind you all in case of trouble." Coop: "Yeah, well, Denny's been driving ahead to the next motel we're staying at and then he sleeps until we get there. We called him over and over but he never answers his phone." Why haven't these restless natives killed Denny?

On day four, my husband called me from a bar (huh?) where the now buzzed bikers were waiting for Tom to catch up. Here we go again. Coop: "We're waiting for Tom." Me: "Where is he?" Coop: "I don't know. No one has seen or heard from him in hours." Me: "Shouldn't someone call him? What if he's hurt on the side of the road somewhere?" Coop: "He might be because Mark just said that Tom's got a heart condition. But Tom's got a phone. He can call us." Me: "Maybe not, if Tom is having a heart attack after riding in the searing heat for 8 hours." Dear thoughtful Coop…as my grandma used to say, "Just shake him baldheaded!"

One day five, they reached the southern end of Key West. However, this happened to be the same day that Key West commemorates the Conch Rebellion. People in boats offshore were staging a reenactment by pitching rotten tomatoes and eggs at the previously excited bikers. Our conversation, later the night, was primarily composed of me listening to his cursing and swearing.

On day six, he rented a car, threw his bike in and drove home. He hugged and kissed me, and declared, "Missed you! So, next time, babe, you are biking with us!" No, darling, I'll just meet you there. I'll be at a luxurious Key West hotel and spa.